Welcome to Survival of the Fittest, a RPing board loosely based off of Koshun Takami's Battle Royale, with its own unique plot and spin on the 'deadly game'. We've been around quite a while, and are now in our thirteenth year, so don't worry about us going anywhere any time soon!

If you're a newcomer and interested in joining, then please make sure you check out the rules. You may also want to read the FAQ, introduce yourself and stop by the chat to meet some of our members. If you're still not quite sure where to start, then we have a great New Member's Guide with a lot of useful information about getting going. Don't hesitate to PM a member of staff (they have purple usernames) if you have any questions about SOTF and how to get started!

The Parish was a place of worship; a place of God. Whatever Gods that one might find themselves believing in, it was here that they could come and pray, or perhaps, as circumstances warranted, make their peace. It was an odd place to leave standing in a contest like Survival of the Fittest, but to some, it would be a welcome haven. There was a distinct possibility that it had been left standing by Danya and his thugs as a sick joke to those who might believe that their God had forsaken them, perhaps as a big "fuck you" to the ones who were more overt in their faith. Nonetheless, it stood, and would serve its purpose.

As a place for some to live...and some to die.

For a time, it stood, unmolested by any new arrivals or people seeking shelter. In fact, between the vacation of the last group and the newest intrusion at the front door, hours had gone by. And now...

The beefy hand that opened the Parish door could only have belonged to one of two individuals, as the professional athlete build betrayed the hand's owner rather readily. The younger of the two Kronwall brothers, Staffan opened the door to the Parish rather hesitantly. Things had gone from bad to worse as he'd regained consciousness, that horrific video confusing him, and then terrifying him. He was ashamed to admit that he'd screamed when his teachers were being executed, and had gone into such a panic therafter that he'd barely remembered being gassed once again. Now...here he was, wandering into a sanctuary, looking for answers when none seemed to appear.

Varför auktoriserat inte något som det vara nöd till å hända?

He couldn't explain it any more than anyone else could, and his examination of his supplies hadn't exactly enhanced his chances of survival. He WAS wearing the trenchcoat, as he supposed that it did offer at least some protection, but being unarmed in a time in which killing was the only way out...it didn't bode well for him. The thought angered him. Him and Niklas...they'd worked so very hard to attain their goals. The NHL had drafted them, and in short order, they were supposed to be attending their first NHL training camp. The Wild had finished poorly the season before, and the big deals that they'd made to draft the Kronwall brothers were thought to establish the Wild as a perennial contender in an NHL landscape that had suffered serious blows in the past several years. The deaths of Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin had all but ended the respective hopes of Pittsburgh and New Jersey to contend for the Stanley Cup, and the brothers were supposed to be the cornerstones for what many believed would be the next NHL dynasty. Alongside Marian Gaborik, the Swedish teenagers would propel their team to victory.

"...and now, that's all gone."

Saying it out loud frustrated Staffan more than he cared admit, even though he'd hoped it would soothe. He'd walked through the parish up to the stand at the very end of the building, and was now standing in front of it, looking through the various religious literature contained within. It pissed him right off. How was it that they could work all of their lives towards a single goal, and then have it all stolen away from them by one psychopathic madman? Not to mention that they could possibly die? He slammed his fist down on the pulpit.

But what in God's name can we do? Escape? With an entire class looking for us?

He sighed. There didn't seem to be any obvious avenues of action - outside of finding his brother. That much was obvious. But after that...? How would they cope; how would they survive?

He didn't know, and that made him angry. Frustratedly, he shuffled around inside of the pulpit, looking through it solely to outlet his anger. Maybe he'd get lucky, find a forgotten knife, a sharp stick, something...

Brent ran and ran, as far away from that sawmill as his legs would carry him. He could see the shape of a small structure up ahead and figured he could bail in there to catch his breath. After all, he'd heard the bang behind him at the sawmill, and hadn't taken the time to think about the magnitude of what may have happened. Several people could be dead right now and he would be to blame, all because he didn't want to see some girl tormented before her demise.

Brent slowed down as he approached what he assumed was the parish he'd seen on his map earlier. It looked enough like a small church, so this had to be it.

Just what I need...judgement at a time like this.

Brent noticed that the entrance door was slightly ajar. Slowly and quietly he reached into his pack and pulled out another stick of dynamite and the lighter, just in case. He then pushed the door open and slid inside.

Immediately he could see someone else inside. Someone with a massive frame that was built for playing hockey. It was Staffan Kronwall. Brent had read and heard all about the Kronwall brothers from almost everybody in the damn state. They were the new Minnesota Miracle Men (move over Gordon Bombay). They were the brothers that were going to bring the fanfare back to a dismal team.

As far as Brent knew, Nik was more personable around the school, while Staffan was quieter. He had heard it was because of the language barrier, but he didn't completely buy that. Deep down Brent had never really respected the brothers choice of playing in the high school league as conditioning. It took the spotlight away from people like himself in the other sports like golf and baseball. Bayview had championship quality players, born and raised in the state, who because of these two brothers were not shown the respect they deserved.

Oh well. He's probably dumb as a brick anyways, so maybe I'll try and team up with him. Hell, with someone his size, you could hide ten people behind him in a gunfight.

"Hey, Staffan! It's Brent Shanahan. Don't worry, I'm not playing or anything. Just looking for some shelter to catch my breath."

Staffan had been reaching all the way back to the end of the pulpit shelf, his hands barely grasping what appeared to be a full bottle of some sort of liquid when Brent had quietly slipped into the Parish and called out his name. Unexpecting anyone to have been able to slip in that quietly, Staffan yelped a little, and jumped, his arm banging against the shelf, and his head bashing against the frame of a painting on the wall. Annoyed, he quickly yanked his arm out and spun around to face the intruder.

Brent Shanahan was slightly familiar to Staffan, but he had never talked to the boy. He was a baseball player, as far as he could recall, and while the two would occasionally attend the same sports functions, the teams would invariably stick together. He was sure that Nik probably knew him, but that was Nik. He seemed to know everyone.

Vad är det i hans händer?

His brow furrowed at the sight of the object. Brent informed him that he wasn't a 'player', and that he was only looking for shelter. This all seemed nonthreatening enough, but something nagged at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was how freaked out Brent didn't seem to be, or the way that Staffan noticed him quickly size the larger boy up...something struck him as odd, though.

Best to be...friendly, I suppose.

Glancing at his left hand, he realized that he now held a bottle of old Whiskey, full and unopened. It seemed as though whichever priest had called this Parish his home had been communicating with more spirits than his parishoners had probably realized. The bottle was long and forgotten, but Staffan felt comforted by its presence. He'd heard Americans refer to alcohol as "liquid courage" on more than one occasion, and the saying was as apt as ever. Right now, he needed all the courage that he could get.

"Brent." He nodded to the boy, though his tone came out harsher than he'd intended it to. "I am not...playing...either. I would rather like to find my brother Niklas, in fact."

Staffan stumbled over the verbiage to describe participating in the horrific game. He wasn't sure that 'playing' was the correct English word for what their captors wanted them to do. It certainly didn't seem like any game he had ever heard of. Games were supposed to be fun - he couldn't imagine that killing people would, or could ever be.

"Have you seen him?"

As Staffan said the words, he realized that throughout the whole interchange, he'd been scowling. His mind was still comprehending the whole situation, and to say that it put him in a foul mood would have been a drastic understatement. In in the interest of maintaining some sort of friendly dialogue, he changed his expression to be more neutral, even though he still felt as sour as ever.

He wasn't sure what else to say. He was scared, confused, and angry. His English was failing him more than usual, which contributed to his annoyance. How could anyone trust him if he couldn't even speak the language properly? He half-frowned again. The day had not started out well.

Listen to this ogre. He comes over to this country and can't even speak our language, yet he's going to make millions, while everyone else has to take two jobs just to support themselves and a family.

Brent shook the thought from his head as he replied to the Swede.

"No, I, haven't, seen, your, brother." Brent said, pausing slightly between words to make sure the ape in front of him understood what he was saying.

Brent eyed the boy up and down again, looking for any trace of weapon, the only thing he could see was a bottle of what looked like whiskey. The Irishman in Brent kicked up at the sight.

"Nice of you to find us something good to drink there Kronner." Brent said as he snatched the bottle from Staffan's hand.

"Whoo, this is some strong shit," Brent declared as he opened the bottle up and took a sniff, "You sure you can handle this? I don't know what kind of pansy ass stuff they have in Slovakia, but this is the stuff that will knock you on your ass."

Brent took a swig of the drink, grimacing slightly as he swallowed. Instantly his body felt warmer.

The blood rushed to Staffan's face as Brent visibly mocked his stammering with his words. That just wasn't fair. It wasn't Staffan's fault that he was scared shitless, and that English just so happened to be his second language! As it went, too, he knew that his English was in fact better than his brother Nik's, and he was the one who often had to explain certain words to his more happy-go-lucky brother. He was about to throw a dry retort back at Brent, when the other boy snatched the bottle out of Staffan's hands, and proceeded to insult him again. He felt his forehead growing hot.

That is wonderful. Of all the people that I come across, I find the biggest asshole in school.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the other boy start to drink the whiskey that he had spent the time extracting from the pulpit. This, coupled with the insults, and Staffan was not amused.

"It's Sweden. I'm from Sweden. Not Slovakia."

He felt a lump in his throat, and tried to restrain the anger that he felt bubbling underneath the surface.

"I'm sure that I could handle it, Brent. In Europe, we're not as conservative with alcohol. I've been drinking whiskey since before I was a teenager. Of course, from the looks of it, you're the one who is having a hard time handling it. I'm not surprised. It's the usual American boasting. Baseball players never could hold their liquor in comparison to the hockey team, anyway. Of course, back in Sweden, we play REAL sports, like hockey..."

Staffan trailed off. He felt his anger rising, but he was keeping it in check. It wouldn't do any good to piss off the baseball player, but he took offense to being called 'Slovakian'. It was common knowledge that Staffan and Niklas were Swedish, and such an oversight was obviously an insult. He felt himself trying to hold back, but the next words out of his mouth were ones that he knew would likely cut deeply.

"...or soccer."

Staffan was well aware that soccer was not a widely-watched sport in the Americas, not nearly as popular as it was in the rest of the world. Of course, back in Europe, it was a national passtime, a sport in which holidays would be held and work would be stopped during events like the European Challenge or the World Cup. But to Americans...they liked their football, and their baseball. Even hockey was somewhat of an afterthought. Staffan couldn't help needling the other boy some more.

"It's the real football, you know. The beautiful game, much better than what you Americans watch. So many stops and starts in your game, but in football? Everything is always moving...it's beautiful. Of course, it's nothing next to hockey."

Staffan grinned, and grabbed the whiskey bottle out of Brent's hands, taking a long swing of it. The stuff did burn as it went down, and Staffan had to give the other boy credit. It was strong stuff. Even still, he tried not to show its effects as he stood there, waiting for the impact of his words to take full meaning.

Brent stood absolutely dumbfounded at the audacity of the guy in front of him. Even though Staffan was smiling, Brent knew that this was the hockey player's retort to his comments. Who the fuck was he to judge anything American.

"Who the hell do you think you are Kronwall? You come over to this country and proceed to insult our national games? We are the country who was going to foot the bill for your little hockey extravaganza."

Brent knocked the bottle away from Staffan's hand with a quick wipe.

"You don't deserve that. I'm sick of ungrateful fuckers like you. Let me guess, you're probably sitting here trying to decide how to find Nik so that the two of you can try to rampage through us and survive? Then what Staffan? What are you going to do if you win? Go back to playing in the NHL? You won't last a damn second my Scandinavian amigo. The cops will be on you, protesters will find you, and the Minnesota Wild won't want a murderer playing for their team. Heatley may have gotten away with it, but you won't."

Brent smiled a true asshole smile as he continued,

"You're fucked Staffan. You can spend however long you want insulting our games and ways, but in the end, you're just some foreign kid who would have sucked millions from our country before you jumped back on the boat with our money. Fuck you Kronwall."

Brent turned to head back to the door, but not before shooting Staffan one last look of disappointment and disgust.

Staffan hadn't been paying as much attention to the words that were coming out of Brent Shanahan's mouth as he had been his own delight at pissing off the fiery baseball player. It really had been quite simple. A few well-placed shots at his precious American passtimes, and he'd know what it felt like to be mocked. Staffan felt relatively proud of himself, and was about to follow it up with an apology, when--

--Brent reached up and struck him, slapping the bottle of whiskey out of his hands. It seemed to plummet off of the raised pulpit in slow motion, and Staffan's eyes followed it all the way down to the ground, where it shattered into thousands of shards of whiskey and glass with a sound so awful that Staffan could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at it. He barely had time to think, as his anger began to simmer back up, bubbling dangerously close to the surface, and beginning to block out his thought processes.

Så pass dum litten skit!

Staffan's eyes glistened with rage as he stared right into the face of the boy, who was now proceeding to verbally attack Staffan and his ambitions, even bringing up the taboo subject of Dany Heatley's car accident, something that any hockey mind would know damn well to stay away from. In the back of his mind, though, he knew that Brent was correct in what he was saying. He was right about one thing - even if Staffan made it out of Survival of the Fittest alive, his NHL dream would likely die on the island, along with his brother. Escape was essentially impossible - hundreds of students had apparently tried and failed. They'd studied it a little bit in their modern world classes, and he recalled the biographies of what had happened to the winners - that of which they knew about. Each winner had sustained so many injuries and lost so many friends that they were a shell of their former selves when they emerged form the game. What gave him the right to possibly believe that he was any different?

...because I...I...Niklas would know what to say, what to...

It was then that Brent turned around, gave him one last look of disgust, and shot "Fuck you, Kronwall" over his shoulder.

It was then that all of the self-doubt, the thinking about his future, and the anger at losing his dreams decided to boil over.

It was then that Staffan Kronwall snapped.

His vision clouded with red, Staffan looked for the closest heavy object that he could see - naturally, the best thing available happened to be a relatively old edition of the Holy Bible. Picking it up, he took a quick step to clear the distance between the baseball player and himself, raised the heavy book over his head, and put all of the force that he could into aiming a swing towards the back of Brent's head. The old book connected with a loud THWACK, causing dust to fly out from all of the pages, and sending the Irish-American lad sprawling forward to land on one knee. Grunting, Brent fought off the sudden swarm of unconsciousness that flew to him, and attempted to turn and send a punch towards his attacker's midsection. Unfortunately for Brent, Staffan was enraged enough to be primed for a second swing, which caught him flush in the face, catching his nose with a loud CRACK and sending the other boy flying backwards, landing hard on his upper back and knocking the wind out of him.

As the boy gasped for air, Staffan snarled as he aimed a kick towards his midsection, a kick that only partially hit its target as Brent instinctively managed to roll away from it. Instead, Staffan's foot smashed against his upper thigh, enraging the big Swede even more. Reaching down, Staffan grabbed Brent by the scruff of his neck, and began to punch him repeatedly in the face with the Bible. Blood began to fly around the Parish, splattering on the ground and getting on Staffan's shirt. At this revelation, he grimaced in anger at the damage to his clothing, and stopped pummelling Brent with the Bible. The baseball player groaned something incomprehensible through his bloodied face, his broken nose flowing blood and his newly broken jaw stopping him from crying out for help. At this outburst, the Swede reached down with both hands, picked Brent up by his shirt, and tossed him off of the raised platform at the front of the parish, watching the boy groan in agony as he landed half on one of the pews, writhing as his back struck the hard wooden edge. He ended up landing in a seated position, sprawled out against the pew, his body feeling like he'd been run over by some sort of Bible-carrying Volvo.

Staffan was about to follow the boy into the pews, his anger clearly getting the best of him, when he almost tripped over a small cylindrical object. Stopping for a moment, he glanced over at Brent. Judging by the boy's groans and moans, he wasn't going anywhere, at least in the next few moments. Carefully, he leaned over and picked the object up. Brent must have dropped it as Staffan had attacked him, and as Staffan's rage-filled visage looked it over, something in his mind clicked that this object was clearly a stick of dynamite.

There's no going back from here, Staffan.

His mental faculties broke through long enough to issue a simple warning. Unfortunately, Staffan really couldn't care less. Brent was right. His dreams were all but over. How could he possibly manage to escape? It was impossible. Could he possibly play hockey after living through such an ordeal? They had taken it away from him. People like Brent Shanahan only punctuated that fact, in spades.

He glanced down. A lighter had been dropped close to the stick, and he picked that up too.

Everything that happened next seemed to come in slow motion.

Staffan clicked the lighter a few times, and held it up to the stick of dynamite. The fuse caught aflame, and slowly began to burn towards the explosive stick. Holding it out so that presumably the bloodied boy in front of him could see it, Staffan's lips turned up in a disturbing grimace.

"You are right, Brent. My dreams may be over. I will never be able to play hockey again... but perhaps that dream does not have to die for my brother. I won't let people like you stand in our way. You have no respect for anybody. You have the typical American outlook. You are a typical American pig! It is YOUR fault that my dreams are dead!"

The grimace became a sinister smile, and his eyes flamed with rage, betraying his next calmly spoken words.

"I must insist that you die with them!"

With that, he lobbed the stick of dynamite towards the pews.

---

Alicia Murazek was hyperventilating so much that she was beginning to see spots. Things had not been good for Alicia over the last twenty-four hours. She had awoken on the island, and instantly panicked at her newfound surroundings. As the realizations began to hit her that she was trapped in Survival of the Fittest; only the most notorious "reality show" on the face of the planet, where the only way out was death? Her perfectly set, well-practiced mental barriers had collapsed. Utterly and totally collapsed. As such, most of the last few hours, Alicia had been wandering the island in a stupor, crying to herself and desperately attempting to come to terms with the situation.

It had only taken sixteen hours, but she had finally stopped crying.

The tears just didn't seem to want to come anymore. They'd given up, left town. Enough was enough. At least, that is what Alicia had finally come to in her own mind. After somehow managing not to get herself killed by wandering around a blubbering mess, she had stopped, collected herself as best she could, and decided that if she was trapped, and quite possibly fucked up shit creek without a paddle, then she was damn well going to try and make the best of it.

That's what we Murazek women do. At least, on mom's side. Even then, I guess it's more 'that's what we 'Moreno' women do. But hey, who's counting?

Her very first stop on her newfound quest to somehow make the best out of an insane situation was the Parish. It had been more by chance that she'd stumbled upon it, and upon hearing what sounded like friendly voices inside, she'd weighed the decision out before deciding that wandering around in a group was probably a far better idea than stumbling around on her own, with nothing for protection but a Dunce Cap.

Maybe I can find some good-looking men who wouldn't mind looking after poor ol' me? That'd be nice. Get a big strong protector? Maybe one of those Kronwall boys. Or even JJ, Roland...? Someone with a larger body than brain?

Of course, as she'd entered the church, immediately she realized that it was the wrong move. The friendly voices that she'd heard from outside which suggested a small group taking shelter in the church had been decieving, as Alicia had wandered in at almost the exact time at which Brent smashed the whiskey bottle out of Staffan's hands. All ready to burst up the middle and (only half-pretend to) play the damsel in distress, Alicia had immediately darted behind a pew at the sound of the glass breaking. Hiding her eyes for a moment, she looked up only to see an absolutely enraged Staffan Kronwall pick up a book and belt Brent Shanahan in the back of the head with it! Her hand had gone to her mouth, and she started to hyperventilate, her legs paralyzed and unable to move.

Alicia witnessed the entire attack, and so when Staffan picked up the small red object and hurled it at the pew in which Brent had landed, about twelve pews ahead of her, Alicia could only watch in horror as it slowly made its way through the air.

Everything in her being told her to move, but it was like being stuck in a bad dream. Her brain was trying to will her legs to move, but they were glued to the spot. Too terrified to move, Alicia could only watch as everything continued to happen in what seemed like half-speed.

This is a bad dream, this is all a bad dream, it's only a dreamitsnotrealitisnthappeningitsnotrealitsonlyafuckingdream...

He should have expected it. He really really should have expected at least some form of retaliation, but even Brent didn't expect to be looking at the roof of the parish, wishing that he call for help and wishing that he wasn't seeing triple of everything.

The deceptive vision problems also led to some confusion when what appeared to be three red cylinders landed right next to him, something on the cylinder was sparking. A barely audible hiss.

No...

It may have taken a few moments in his grogginess, but it finally registered with Brent what was about to happen. Staffan had found his weapon. Staffan had decided to use Brent's weapon against him. He was about to die.

So many thoughts ran through Brent's head so quickly that he couldn't quite comprehend everything all at once.

Painsadhappyregrethornypainkillexplodemomdadheatherpainsadfuckshitsad

Then it happened. Brent tried to roll his face away from the explosion but it was for naught. The explosion blew Brent from the ground, along with a majority of the nearby pews causing a huge cloud of dust to form inside the parish. When the dust settled the damage of the dynamite was clear. The building itself was still intact, but it's innards were a massacred remain of what it had been mere seconds ago.

The piece du resistance of the massacre, an Irish teenager impaled through the sternum on a piece of one the blown apart pews. Blood slowly streaming down from the wound.

One moment, the stick of dynamite had been hurtling through the air, missing Brent but landing in his viscinity. The next...a cloud of smoke and fire erupted from the area, sending Staffan back into the back wall with a sudden ferocity. The impact knocked the rage right out of his eyes, but he found himself quickly closing them to avoid the dust that flew everywhere from the explosion.

He'd had no clue that the small stick of dynamite would cause that much damage. Staffan kept his eyes closed for a few moments, waiting for the dust around him to settle.

---

Much like Staffan, Alicia had also underestimated the power of dynamite in an enclosed space. Having been frozen with fear as the stick hurled through the air, she could do nothing but watch as Brent, the pews, and a cloud of dust all erupted in a fiery blast, sending wood and shrapnel all over the place, and lifting the Bayview senior right off her feet, and crashing into the back doors of the Parish.

An intense, sharp pain ran right through her left shoulder as her back connected with the heavy doors. As she slumped to the ground, she cried out in pain, and then coughed as the dust in the air was thick. Alicia could barely see through it. The pain in her shoulder took her mind off of the other elephant in the room, and she groaned as her hands finally reconnected with the rest of her brain.

---

Time passed, and neither of the two individuals in the Parish moved. Whether it was out of exhaustion, or out of pure and simple fear for their lives, the Parish was silent for a good, long while.

After several moments (or could it have been hours?) of waiting, Staffan finally dragged himself back to his feet. The large boy was sore from his sudden meeting with the back wall, and his ears continued to ring, even though the dust had mostly settled. Inside of his mind, a million thoughts were running around. He'd killed someone. It was a harsh reality that he was only beginning to comprehend. Sure, Brent Shanahan had been someone who was, for all intents and purposes, asking for it, but was that something that Staffan was going to be able to deal with?

You have to. You did what needed to be done.

God. He couldn't believe that it had come to this. He wasn't a killer - at least, he didn't think he was. Circumstances might have said otherwise, but he didn't believe it. Hopefully Niklas wouldn't either. Brushing himself off, he started to move towards the doors of the parish. That was when he saw the girl, standing in front of him, looking at him with hateful eyes. Had she seen what transpired? Half of him didn't really care. He needed to go, he needed to leave this place behind. His mind was still processing all of the new information, still putting what had happened into terms that he could comprehend.

---

He's a killer. He killed Brent, just like that, just like it was nothing...

Alicia Murazek wasn't usually one to go off on anyone. Usually, she was a bubbly supply of positivity, but right now...she'd just seen someone get murdered. Against everything that her mind was telling her, sometimes her body just had a life of its own. As Staffan had gotten up and started to walk down the aisle, past Brent's decomposing corpse, Alicia decided that she couldn't just let him go, let his conscience be his only judge.

"How could you be so VICIOUS!?"

Staffan looked a bit surprised, and taken aback. He wasn't expecting the girl to say much of anything, and really didn't know what to say. Alicia wouldn't let him get a word in.

"What is WRONG WITH YOU!?"

Staffan, unsure of what to say, just continued to walk towards the exit. It was here that Alicia's anger boiled over, and she ran at Staffan, fists flying. Shocked, Staffan stopped walking, and hesitated. As the much smaller girl began futiley attacking the large hockey player, he wasn't sure what to do. Her blows didn't hurt that much, but her fists were flailing, and she was basically screaming at him.

Don't...you shouldn't...

"IS THAT ALL YOU KNOW HOW TO DO? JUST KILL INNOCENT PEOPLE!?"

Alicia's fists were pounding on Staffan's chest with little strength, and finally, he reached out and firmly grasped at her arms. She began struggling with even more ferocity, and started to lash out at his legs with fierce kicks.

"Ungh, stop it!"

With her arms restrained, Staffan began to push her away from him, and in a near-panic, Alicia aimed a headbutt at him, which connected and surprised the large Swede. He shoved her backwards, but tripped over her kick that she was aiming at his legs, and came down on top of her, still gripping her arms.

"NO! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

Staffan winced at the outburst, and then looked on in horror as the girl underneath him began to scream. Unsure of what to do, he moved his hands towards her mouth, causing her to struggle even more.

What are you DOING, Staffan?

Unfortunately, Staffan could not control the actions that were now being performed by his body. As he straddled the girl, he watched in an abject horror as his hands wrapped themselves around her neck and began to squeeze. Her eyes went wide as she realized what was happening; as the life slipped out of her body. Staffan's hands tightened, and he saw the telltale signs of her lips turning blue...and her struggling slowly stopped.

Staffan, no...what did she...

With one last surge of strength, Staffan's hands surged forwards, and he felt the crackling of her neck bones under his large hands. At the loud crack, Staffan's eyes bolted wide open, immediately having come back under control of his body. Stammering, he looked down at the dead girl underneath him.

"Oh God...Oh GOD!"

Stumbling backwards, he glanced at the remains of Brent Shanahan across the parish, and then at the freshly deceased Alicia Murazek underneath him. He blinked in disbelief, and then scrambled to his feet and bolted from the Parish, leaving a wake of carnage behind him.